The world had changed.

Wanda Maximoff felt it before she saw it—before she even opened her eyes. The air was heavier, saturated with something unfamiliar, something potent yet untamed. It was not the hum of the Mind Stone, nor the structured energies of the multiverse she had glimpsed through the Darkhold. No, this was something else entirely. It pulsed like a sleeping giant beneath the fabric of reality, thick and alive.

She groaned, shifting against the cold earth beneath her. Her limbs ached, not from battle, but from the sheer weight of existence itself. This was not her world.

She forced her eyes open, and the sky greeted her with an ominous shade of crimson, as if soaked in the dying light of a sun that never truly set. The clouds moved unnaturally, swirling in slow, deliberate patterns. It was quiet—too quiet. No rumble of traffic, no distant hum of civilization. Just the crackling of dying embers and the soft rustle of the wind through blackened grass.

Wanda pushed herself up, her fingers digging into soil that crumbled like burnt parchment. Around her, the remnants of what had once been a fire smoldered, the charred bones of trees standing like gravestones in a land that had long forgotten life. The scent of smoke and damp earth filled her lungs.

Where am I?

She reached out instinctively, her magic a whisper at her fingertips, searching—feeling—for a thread of the familiar. Instead, she found resistance. The air here did not bend to her will as easily as it should. It was thick with something foreign, something that pushed back.

Her gaze dropped to her lap, where a familiar presence pulsed with dark energy. The Darkhold.

The cursed tome remained with her, its leather-bound surface unnaturally cold even in the warmth of the embers. The runes on its cover shifted, almost breathing, as if aware of their surroundings.

She was not alone.

A prickling sensation ran down her spine. Slowly, Wanda lifted her gaze, scanning the landscape. In the distance, past the charred clearing, a village stood nestled between jagged hills. It was small, crude wooden huts lined up in uneven rows, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of time. Smoke curled from crooked chimneys, blending into the blood-colored sky.

And from the shadows of those homes, they watched her.

The villagers stood in silence, half-hidden behind doors and fences, their eyes filled with something Wanda had seen countless times before—fear. Some clutched farming tools, others gripped the hands of children who peeked from behind tattered robes.

A boy, no older than ten, broke the silence. His voice was barely a whisper, but in the deadened air, it carried like an omen.

"Demoness…"

A ripple of unease spread through the gathered villagers. A woman clutched a string of worn prayer beads. An elderly man muttered something under his breath.

Wanda's jaw tightened. She had been called many things—hero, villain, god, monster. It was all the same in the end. People feared what they did not understand.

She forced herself to her feet, the weight of the Darkhold pressing against her as she took a slow step forward. The villagers tensed, some taking cautious steps back. She was an outsider in their world, an unknown force that had quite literally fallen from the sky.

A figure moved through the crowd, parting them like a slow-moving tide. An old man, his back slightly hunched, his face lined with the deep creases of time. His robes were simple, faded from years of wear, but his posture held an air of quiet authority. A leader, or at least, someone they respected.

He stopped a few paces away from her, leaning heavily on a wooden staff. His gaze was sharp, studying her with the careful patience of a man who had seen much and trusted little. His eyes flickered to the Darkhold.

"You fell from the heavens," he said, his voice rough with age but steady. "Your robes are strange. Your presence… unnatural."

Wanda met his gaze. "I am no demon."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some seemed relieved. Others… skeptical.

The old man exhaled, shifting his weight on his staff. "Then what are you?"

Wanda hesitated. A question she had asked herself countless times. A witch? A mother? A destroyer? A savior?

She settled on the simplest truth. "A traveler."

The old man's gaze lingered on her, as if weighing the words. "A traveler from where?"

Wanda's lips pressed into a thin line. "Far from here."

That, at least, was not a lie.

A silence stretched between them, the wind stirring loose strands of her hair.

The old man finally nodded, as if coming to a quiet decision. "This is the Village of Ash," he said. "A place for the forgotten."

Something in his tone struck her. The forgotten. There was a weight to those words, a history buried beneath them. These were not people who had chosen to live in seclusion; they had been cast aside.

"If you seek shelter, we have little to offer," he continued. "If you seek power, you will not find it here."

A wry smile tugged at Wanda's lips. Power? She had power beyond their comprehension. Yet, what had it truly brought her? Suffering. Loss. Emptiness.

She glanced at the village again. The villagers had not relaxed, but the immediate threat of her presence seemed to have dulled. The fear was still there, lingering beneath the surface, but so was something else—curiosity.

"The forgotten," she murmured, her fingers brushing over the Darkhold's surface. "Then perhaps I belong here."

The old man studied her carefully. Then, with a slow nod, he turned. "Come. We will talk inside."

He gestured toward a modest wooden hut at the edge of the village.

Wanda followed, feeling the weight of a hundred wary eyes on her back. The village did not trust her, and perhaps they never would.

But for now, it was a beginning.

And in a world unknown, beginnings were all that mattered.